


Swung

by wesleyfanfiction_archivist



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-01-04
Updated: 2004-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 05:00:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6456949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleyfanfiction_archivist/pseuds/wesleyfanfiction_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike observes Wesley and decides to do him a couple of favors.  (AtS season five, almost but not quite canon.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swung

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [WesleyFanfiction.net](http://fanlore.org/wiki/WesleyFanFiction.Net). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [WesleyFanfiction.net collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wesleyfanfiction/profile).

Vampires – ghostly or not – retain the ability to move as silently as, well, the dead. Spike, newly corporeal, takes full advantage of this as he gets to know Wolfram and Hart’s L.A. branch. He pops up as unexpectedly as he did when he could walk through walls, and often watches people for minutes at a time before they’re aware of his presence. Such is the case with Wesley, who is himself watching Fred with such intensity that Spike half expects the glass separating them to shatter, or at least warp a little. He is fascinated by the tableau. 

“Pretty little bit, isn’t she?” he says conversationally. The other man’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t turn his head. 

“Bugger off,” he says distinctly, at his most clipped.

Spike ignores him, continues, “Smart, too - one of those few who can look at all that mumbo-jumbo you mystic types do and see the math behind the magic. Must be fascinating, inside her head, seeing how all those pieces fit together… And then she wraps all that genius up in that soft Texas twang that makes her sound like she just finished canning gooseberries or some such…” He looks at Wesley again, but the man is rigid, his eyes still locked on Fred. “Full of contradictions, that’s our girl. Stubborn as a mule under that scatterbrained way she talks, and those big eyes… innocent as the day she was born, half the time, but from certain angles some old soul looks out and sees right through you.” He takes an unneeded breath, lets it out on a sigh, watching the Watcher sink into the rhythm of his words. “Bottomless appetite and yet thin as a reed, with those long, long legs a man can’t help imagining locked around him. Not beautiful, not really, but something about her makes it hard to look away…” He’s become intent on the image he’s weaving now, and he leans forward precariously, his chin almost on Wesley’s shoulder. “The kind of girl you could know for the rest of your days and never get bored… the kind you could spend the rest of your life trying to forget.” Spike closes his eyes against inadvertent memory, but opens them immediately, having caught the unmistakable smell of aroused human male. Amused, he deliberately shatters the spell with a crude grin. “Yes, quite a girl, our Fred. Bet she’s wanton in bed. The quiet ones always are.”

This finally gets a reaction. Spike exults, waiting for the blow he’s certain to receive, thinking, *pain for pain, come on, you wanker, give me my share*. Wesley turns, lightning-quick, and catches Spike by the front of his T-shirt. The look on his face is of rage, of hate, of longing, and of love, and Spike, who had intended to sneer, only stares. Wesley brings his mouth down on the vampire’s crushingly, punishment and desperation intermingled in the brutal kiss. Unsure why, Spike kisses back with a hundred years of skill and feels Wesley’s erection against his stomach as the man involuntarily pulls him even closer. He feels himself go hard in response to simply being wanted, disappointed when Wesley abruptly lets go, chest heaving for the breath Spike forgot to account for. Relieved and confused, he obeys when Wesley jerks his head toward the left. “My office.”

Spike follows the man into the spacious room, flicking the lock on the door behind him. Wesley hauls Spike back into him, ravishing the cold mouth with desperate intensity. Spike knows he could resist – though smaller, he is obviously still the stronger – but he doesn’t want to. He returns the kiss, enjoying the warm, coffee-tinged taste of the man, and moves his hands down to the narrow hips, grinding their erections together through layers of denim. Wes bucks against him, his own hands roaming under the duster, finding the waistband of Spike’s jeans and dipping under to cup cool, smooth flesh. He’s beyond hesitation, beyond wondering why now, why Spike; desperate for release regardless of the vessel.

Spike unbuttons the other man’s shirt, working his clever mouth down the hard wall of chest, hands scouting ahead to free Wesley’s swollen cock, already straining, precum moistening the tip. He licks it clean, using his tongue to tease the sensitive nerve endings in the tip, circling around the head, using his hands to stroke the shaft and tug gently on the balls. Wesley is grateful, losing his painful thoughts in the sensation, trying to hold out long enough not to embarrass himself. His knees give out before his control, and he braces his hands on Spike’s shoulders. The vampire knows he’s close, and tilts his head to take Wes as far down his throat as he can, sucking in the rhythm of the man’s heartbeat. Wesley forgets, for a moment, everything but the strangely cool feel of Spike’s mouth and throat around his cock; the exquisite, almost painful sensation of his now overheated body in the vampire’s icy-by-contrast hands. He comes hard, tangling his hands in the platinum hair as Spike swallows every drop of ejaculate. Spike crawls up his body, his long fingers exploring, stroking, teasing, then seals his mouth back to the taller man’s, making Wesley taste his own cum.

Limp with release, gasping for breath, Wes collapses into a chair, waving vaguely at Spike. Thinking he understands, the vampire nods, and turns to leave. The waving becomes vehemently negative.

“Not what I meant,” Wes manages. “Just… give me a second. I’ll… return the favor,” he finishes, raising an eyebrow for the irony. Spike starts to demur, but he’s still uncomfortably hard and the idea of the ex-Watcher giving head is a titillating one. He turns back, waits. Wes drags himself up, fastens his jeans, and walks over to the vampire. Dropping to his knees, he efficiently flips open the black jeans and takes Spike in his mouth. His hands and mouth are all business, focused on causing orgasm as quickly as possible, but Spike has had worse. He enjoys the enveloping heat of the man’s mouth, the practiced motions of the hands. Not bothering to hold back, he comes hard, and is obscurely pleased when Wes swallows.

Wes stands, straightening his clothing. He lets Spike do the same, then looks at him and says, “Go take a shower. I don’t want Angel smelling me all over you.”

The vampire grins: cocky, irrepressible, and apparently totally unoffended. “I wouldn’t let him in here for a couple of weeks, then.” He vanishes round the door, and Wesley sinks into a chair with his head in his hands.

***

“So, how’s your love life?”

Fred whirls at the unexpected voice behind her, for a second too surprised to find Spike watching her to react to the words. Before she can speak, he continues, “What I mean is, are you going to take your pet lab rat”, he indicates Knox with a tilt of his head, “home one of these nights, or are you finally going to give the old Watcher a boff?”

It takes her a second to figure out what he means, but she seizes on the last part first. “Wesley and I are just friends, Spike.” She starts to say more, but he cuts her off.

“Don’t play dumb, girl, it doesn’t suit you. You can’t tell me you don’t see the want in his eyes when he looks at you, or the murderous glances he sends that boy out there. You’ve known for a long time – you’re too smart not to. Question is, what are you going to do about it?”

She turns from her view of the lab to stare out at smoggy Los Angeles. “Do? I can’t *do* anything about how he feels.”

“Didn’t say you could, luv. But how do you feel? Has he got a chance, then, or not?” Spike has always found that humans will talk to him if he plays it right: just the perfect amount of offhand curiosity, overlaid with a dash of real concern. She forgets to wonder why he cares.

“I… don’t know. There’s something cold about him, something… hard.”

Spike sees that. For all she’s done, all she’s faced, that stone façade that seems to be Wesley’s defense mechanism of choice is foreign to her; it probably always will be. But…

“Part of that’s just the English on him, pet. All those centuries of stiff upper lip tend to leave a mark.” She looks at him, raising an eyebrow at the lame excuse, then frowns and begins to turn away. The contempt for his hypocrisy is clear. “All right. There’s more to it than that. The man’s looked into hell and seen his own reflection, and that’s not something you forget. He’s killed, and he’s hurt … and part of him enjoyed doing it.” 

“We’ve all killed.” She closes her eyes, remembering. “Or worse. Wesley’s a good man.”

“Do him a favor, and keep on believing that. Whether you want him or not… seeing it in your eyes might help him believe it.”

She doesn’t acknowledge this last, but Spike can tell she knows it’s true. Sometimes a man has to keep his image somewhere besides his mirror. Women, he thinks, are stronger that way. Finally she says, “I see him, sometimes, when he looks at me… there’s this endless need in his eyes. I can’t be… whatever it is he thinks I am.”

He knows this dance. Knows it frightens her, to be needed so badly; knows that she’ll never understand why. But he also knows that sometimes – only sometimes – just loving is enough. He hopes this is one of those times. “Could be you already are. Course, you’re right. He’s no prize catch. Cold, and condescending, and with scars that go way beyond just the physical. That endless need – might be that nothing will ever make it go away.” Spike pauses, trying to strike just the right notes. “But it might be worth it to find out. Might be nice, coming home to a man grateful just for the privilege of loving you… someone smart enough to understand almost everything that comes out of that pretty little mouth of yours… someone who’d walk into hell to prevent you having to… that might be worth a lot, depending on what it is you wanted.”

He’s watching her with intensity, and is unprepared when she turns the scrutiny back on him, giving him a look in which puzzlement and pity are inextricably intertwined. “Was it worth… enough… for her, Spike?”

He can’t meet her eyes. “I have to believe it was.”  
Fred gazes at him for a minute, this intractable vampire who can’t seem to keep his nose out of other people’s affairs, who claims to be utterly self-interested but can’t ignore anyone in pain, and softens. Because she knows how he craves touch, now that he can feel again, she steps close, puts a hand on his shoulder and kisses his cheek. “I think it was, too,” she says softly, and walks away.

***

She calls him, late, but he answers at once. She thinks she heard a noise – she’s sorry it’s so late – she’s sure it was nothing. But – if it wouldn’t be too presumptuous – if he could come over – she feels so stupid – but she would sleep better knowing – of course. He’s on his way. She’s surprised at how easy it was, the lie, the pretend fright. And – a little irritated at how quickly he accepted her helplessness. Spike was right about more things than just Wesley’s feelings for her. It was time to hope he was right about everything. Because – there was no going back now.

She’s already showered, dried her hair, gathered it into a loose knot atop her head. She dons a thin robe, pale peach flowers like watercolors on the cream silk. She’s waiting when he knocks, and opens the door to find him girded for battle: crossbow, stake, and the cold steel that seems ever-present on his hip. He swallows visibly at the sight of her, but then hardens into business mode.

“Where did you hear it?” He prowls around her living room, checking windows and doors. She almost laughs, but catches herself.

“I didn’t.”

“What?” He swings to face her, thinking she’s misunderstood. “No, before. The noise. Where did you hear the noise?”

“I knew what you meant, Wes. We’re really gonna have to work on that condescension thing, aren’t we? There was no noise.”

He lowers the crossbow, drops the stake. “But then…”

She takes the weapon out of his hand, removes the gun from the holster on his hip, and then winds her arms around his neck. “Because I wanted you here.” She kisses him gently, sweetly, and he can feel every bit of her through the silk. He stiffens, afraid to believe, then afraid of himself: he wants to devour her, to throw her to the floor and take her right there. Appalled, he pulls back, searches her face. She smiles softly, with almost credulous trust, and he kisses her as if she were spun glass. She sighs in pure pleasure, a pleasant little hum against his mouth, and as her hands creep into his hair he’s aware that his arousal must be more than apparent. They continue to kiss, open-mouthed and hungry now, as his hands sweep down her back in long strokes, almost like petting a supremely silky cat. She molds herself against him in response, small breasts warm and firm against the muscles of his chest.

He swings her up into his arms and carries her into the bedroom, laying her down carefully on the bed. She sits up to keep her lips pressed to his and starts undressing him: leather jacket, button-down shirt, dark jeans. He kicks off his loafers and kneels on the bed, laying her back again as he opens her robe. He stares at her, reverently, noting the long legs, tiny waist, rose-tipped breasts, and the perfect hollow at the base of her throat. Her hair has fallen down, framing pale skin with rich chestnut in a counterpoint he’s imagined a thousand times. She sees him falter, disbelieving again, and hopes it’s the last time. Her eyes meet his, hold them, and she says, “Touch me.”

It’s all the invitation he needs. He trails kisses down her body, beginning at one collarbone and finishing with her breasts. He bends his head to take one nipple in his mouth, teasing the aureole with his tongue, scraping his teeth lightly over the flesh around it. For a second, it tickles; then she gasps, as her entire body seems to focus on that one point. He does the same to the other, then brings his mouth back to hers while his hands stroke her stomach and hips. She runs her hands over the muscles in his back, bringing them down to caress his sides, up to tangle again in his hair, inadvertently pulling when his right hand slides between her legs and he slips his fingers inside her. He looks up from his attentions to her left earlobe, delighted as a little boy, and the last undecided bit of her heart shudders, and falls.  
Moving his fingers slowly, he searches intently for her sweet spot while she begins to wriggle about, unable to hold still as he strokes her from the inside. When he finds it, he rubs in a circular motion; the sensation has her wrapping her legs around his hips, trying to force him into her. He evades, biting his tongue to cut through his body’s desperation for release. He brings her to a climax with his hands alone, then kisses her deeply and finally, finally slides into her. She sighs in relief as he fills her, savoring the feel of him. He pauses, enveloped in her tight warmth, then begins to move slowly in and out. She matches her hips to his movements, and they glide toward fulfillment, achingly slowly, wrapped up in each other’s arms and murmuring nonsense. She crests in what feels like a long, liquid wave, and he comes a second later, the extra sensation prolonging it for her. 

Weak, nearly shaking, with release and exhaustion, he slides out of her and stretches out flat, moving her to lie draped across him. She makes no protest but pulls the sheet over them both, then cuddles against him trustingly. He kisses the top of her head, and she sighs, snuggling even closer. He locks his hands together over her waist, making sure she’s securely in his arms. He lays there in wonder long after she has fallen asleep, superstitiously afraid to close his eyes in case it was all a dream.

As he stares out into the night, Fred clasped against his chest, a brief spark outside catches his eye. Alerted but not alarmed, he strains to get a better look before waking or moving the girl pressed to his heart. When his eyes adjust to the shades of dark, he makes out a dim, barely discernible figure on the balcony. The thing appears to be… smoking a cigarette. Suddenly comprehending a great many things he won’t be able to remember in the morning, he smiles at Spike, and contentedly goes to sleep.

*The end*


End file.
